


little love, a little sympathy

by tremontaine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Multi, OT3, PWP, Shaving, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 12:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4222560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tremontaine/pseuds/tremontaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh!” Natasha said, sweetly surprised and utterly delighted.</p><p>“Christ,” said Bucky, shivering. “That was –“</p><p>“I’m shaving you every morning,” she said, charmed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	little love, a little sympathy

“Oh wow,” said Natasha, biting back a grin.

“Oh, don’t,” said Bucky, laughing. “I might keep it.”

“You might die,” said Natasha. “Can you risk it?” And pushed him away sternly when he leaned in for a kiss. “Oh no you don’t. I’m filthy – you’re filthy – and that has to go.”

“You’re a hard cruel woman,” Bucky said cheerfully. “I haven’t seen you in about a decade.” But he stepped back, and let Sharon’s people chivvy them into HQ for debriefing and medical check-ups. They really were filthy, both of them – if you plan assaults on terrorist strongholds in sub-tropical jungles in the middle of the rainy season filth was an inevitable consequence even before you got to the blood and gunpowder parts of the operation. His pants were thickly coated with mud, wet through, sticking to or slapping uncomfortably against his legs, and his left side was sore with the damp. He needed a six-hour hot shower, a haircut, a clean suit, decent boots, and a shave. He needed a hot meal and a cold drink of something that wasn’t beer; he had had enough beer to last him a lifetime the past month, it had been like living in the Middle Ages, when water wasn’t safe to drink because it gave you gripes. He needed to wrap up this debrief, get on a chopper, and lock both himself and his loves into a hotel room for a week, where he intended to spend the first 24 hours with his head between Natasha’s thighs and the next 24 between Steve’s.

Or the other way round. He wasn’t picky. They could trade him off...

Steve had stubble himself, and shadows under his eyes; a rare occurrence both. Bucky pulled a face at him.

“Tony build a murderbot?”

“Not this week,” said Steve. “All the intel on Mendoza turned out to be moonshine. Rhodey was not impressed.”

“Fuck,” said Bucky feelingly.

And that was the most intimate conversation they had for another 27 hours.

+++

By the time the jet left Buck was ready to sleep on his feet. He had caught naps here and there in HQ at quiet moments, but he felt as if they had only served to make it clear to him just how much he needed a proper long sleep. He had managed to shower, and was wearing a clean uniform, but the smell of mud and blood clung to him, miasma-like, and he couldn’t stop rubbing his hand through the beard, now he was no longer undercover. It was long enough that it no longer itched, but he had caught a glimpse of himself in the steamed-up shower room mirror and was oddly perturbed by it.

“Your Mam would have your guts for garters,” said Steve quietly. He was smiling, crooked with tiredness.

Bucky laughed. “Yeah.” Elizabeth Barnes had had Opinions about men who wore full beards, and they were not particularly good ones. Bucky had no real idea why, except for a vague and hazy memory of a man whom he thought had been his grandfather: a tall, bearded figure whose breath had smelt of drink and whom his mother, he knew, had never allowed into her marital home. It was one of a list of things he would never get to ask her about, now…

He sighed and shook himself. They had a long flight ahead, and moping about his family wouldn’t make it shorter. What was the date? He struggled with it for a few minutes, trying to count the days from the last time he had looked at a calendar; finally he worked out that they would reach home on a Tuesday. That was enough time for sleep and comfort and reunion sex marathons; at the weekend he would go see his nieces.

Steve said quietly, “Get some sleep.”

Bucky shifted in his chair, yawning. “Yeah.” There wasn’t much else to do, except look longingly at Steve and Natasha and wish they were alone. It wasn’t a secret as such, but none of them liked to advertise their relationship beyond their immediate friends; thus, there was the whole width of a quinjet between Bucky and Steve’s warm arms. He let his head drop back against the chair, yawning again; fingers in his hair as Natasha passed him, the low murmur of her voice and Steve’s. He couldn’t make out the words over the hum of the engines…

+++

He didn’t remember how the hell he got from the jet to the car, hours later, but he was awake and alert by the time they pulled into their own street. Steve fumbled with the keys, yawning; Bucky took them off him, but Natasha had already opened the front door. That was probably symbolic. He went around the ground floor flinging all the windows open, chasing the gloom out, the faintly stale smell of unoccupied rooms. It was late evening, and the sunlight was honey-gold and warm and lovely.

The fridge was basically empty, unless a few jars of jam and sauces that probably didn’t need to be refrigerated counted; there were a few shrivelled up apples in the fruit bowl in the dining room; apart from that, there was no food in the house at all. Wait, there were cookies. And ice cream in the freezer. And, under the ice cream, ready-made lasagne. At least they wouldn’t have to leave the house again till tomorrow… he kicked the standard-issue boots off in the living room, ran his forefinger through the dust on the coffee table, dropped the jacket on the floor, uncaring of the mess. Mess made it homely; made it theirs. His copy of Moorcock’s Elric stories was still lying on the dining room table. Tomorrow he’d clean the house from top to bottom – Steve and Natasha could go grocery shopping – they’d only get into an argument about Walmart and hipster farmer’s markets if Bucky went with them; he was a grocer’s son, he had hang-ups. And then he was gonna bend Steve over that perfectly-polished heavy oak table and fuck him till they both collapsed.

Mmm. The fantasy put heat in his belly, stirred him up and made him smile. He stripped off the rest of the uniform, down to the grey briefs, and tossed the lot into the laundry basket in front of the washing machine; then he went upstairs, yawning again. Faintly he saw Steve and Natasha’s footprints in the dust. They could get a cleaner, he supposed, for missions like this. But on the other hand: giving a stranger access to their home didn’t sit right with him.

A car went past; there was a bird in a tree, and crickets in the back yard. The house was very quiet. Steve was standing in their bedroom, by the bay windows – he had opened them all, as Bucky had with the downstairs ones – shirtless but still wearing his pants. The rich evening sunlight limned his hair, lank and dirty as it was, and turned his skin a warm gold. He had his arms crossed, a knee on the window-seat; his shoulder rested against the wall. It was a painting that should be done in browns and golds and yellows; Bucky smiled at it, watching him from the doorway, and bit his lip when Steve turned his head slightly and Bucky saw that he was smiling, dreamy and contented.

He nearly said something. Then he stepped back instead, storing the image in his memory; he wouldn’t shatter it… he wanted it done on canvas, kept perfect in a photograph, preserved somewhere more durable than his own patched-up memory. But then again, for what had happened to it, his own memory was enviably durable… Bucky turned away before Steve moved, smiling to himself, and went silent down the hall to the bathroom. Natasha was in the second bedroom, wearing only her underwear, her head in the linen cupboard. She was humming to herself, a ballet, Bucky thought, and looking for a particular sheet, he supposed. Why on earth. They were just sheets. But whatever made her happy…

The noise he made when he stepped into their own shower and the hot water sluiced over him was borderline orgasmic. It was good to smell like himself, as well: shampoo and shower gel and the lotion he rubbed into his left shoulder, the aching join of scar tissue and metal just below his neck. It always pulled at him most there, as if the skin was still soft and newly-healed. Maybe in a way it always was. Who knew how his healing factor really worked?

When he had finished he wiped the steam off the mirror and looked at himself again. Borderline awful. Look at that hair. Bruises under his eyes. The cuts on his forehead and cheek were healed, but the new skin was still pink.

Natasha was right. The beard had to go.

Steve, behind him: arms around Bucky’s waist, skin chilled with standing in front of the open windows, feeling the breeze. Bucky smiled, watching Steve drop his forehead to the metal shoulder in the mirror.

“Hey.”

“Evening,” Steve murmured. “Nice beard, by the way.”

“It’s gotta go.”

“It’s sexy in a kind of…” Steve raised his hand from Bucky’s waist and waved it.

“Down and out in Brooklyn and South America?”

Steve snorted.

“It’s gotta go, baby. You won’t be singin’ its praises when it scratches all your thighs up. Or that pretty ass, either.” Steve shivered, and Bucky could feel his cock twitch against his own ass. “Yeah. Sounds better than it’ll feel.”

“It’s too long to be scratchy,” Steve said, clearing his throat and trying to sound reasonable.

“Hell to keep tidy,” said Bucky. “And clean.” He thought about eating Natasha out, how she’d balance on her knees over his face and squirm and cry out and get so deliciously wet it would run down his chin and neck sometimes, how it made him feel marked, possessed. And Steve, of course –

Right on cue. “Hello.” Steve nuzzled at his neck, sweet and soft, and slid his hand down Bucky’s stomach to tease his cock. “Thought you were tired.”

“Slept on the jet,” Bucky pointed out, biting his lip. Steve’s hands were cool, and clever, and gentle…

“Yeah.” Steve laughed quietly. “Drove me crazy, you lying there all inviting.”

“Uh-huh.” Bucky watched his own eyes in the mirror: the way they narrowed when he smiled, the laugh lines crinkling at their corners.

“Kept thinking Natasha was just gonna climb into your lap and sleep there.”

“I wanted to,” said Natasha from the doorway. “Oh aren’t you gorgeous.”

Bucky turned his head: she was naked, smiling, her eyes lit up with want, her nipples tight in the cool air from the corridor. She had tied her hair up, a loose messy bun, escaped locks curling a little, framing her face sweetly.

“Nothing on you,” he said. “Steve likes my beard, by the way.”

She sniffed. “Steve’s not reliable right now. He’s tired and horny and probably can’t even see straight.”

Bucky started to laugh; Steve said, “Oh, well then!” and then started laughing himself. “God.” He kissed Bucky’s neck again. “I need a shower.”

“Yes,” said Nat, “go. I have plans for that beard.” She pointed at the toilet imperiously; Bucky took the hint and closed the lid to sit on it. It was cold and smooth against his bare ass and thighs, an odd sensation. When she came close he smelt her own shower gel, saw the dusting of talcum powder and the dampness of her hair; she must have showered in the other bathroom at the same time he did.

“Relax,” she said softly, and Bucky shifted downwards, put his head back; after a moment he dropped his hands to the sides of his thighs, fingers loosely curled. His throat was exposed, his whole body open, on display. He closed his eyes, listening to the dash of water against the shower floor as Steve washed, the noise of the tap, the sound of the wet brush rubbing over the shaving soap, working up a lather.

“Here.” Damp fingers on his right shoulder, then a towel laid over his neck, across his shoulders. She straddled his thighs, her skin warm against his, sticky with lotion and the steamy heat of the bathroom.

Bucky sighed. “Tease.”

“Shh.” She laughed softly. “You can have me the moment I’m finished.” He barely felt it, through the beard, when she began to lather his face gently. There was a song on her lips again, a hum in her throat, and her small strong hand rested on his chest, balancing herself.

“Yeah. Sit on my lap and let me kiss your tits till you’re all squirming around and desperate. Get your slick all over my thighs.” He opened his eyes in time to see her flush, grinning. “Rub off against my leg while Steve watches.”

“Behave,” she said, leaning over him. The straight razor made a _snik_ little noise when she unfolded it, and Bucky shivered in spite of himself, nearly flinched. Here he was, safe in his own home with a woman he loved more than life itself on his naked lap – naked, and he had done it himself this time, had stripped himself bare and laid himself out for her perusal, hers and Steve’s, made himself assailable of his own free will. And now – now the deadliest killer he knew was kneeling over him with a very sharp blade up against his soft and unprotected throat.

The gentle scrape of the blade up his neck and over his jaw made him shudder. His self-control was slipping about every which way from Sunday, god.

“Don’t move, darling,” she said, soft and serious. Her face was concentrated but her eyes were bright with love. “Don’t move.”

Again. And again. He swallowed hard when she went to tap the lather and the hairs off the blade, found his hands were on her thighs – was he trying to warn her or caress her or reassure himself? And he was fully hard and dizzy with it, his cock curving up towards his belly. He had to close his eyes. He could hear the hairs being cut. He could smell her too, musky and hot. She was careful with his chin, short little strokes almost to his lips.

“Have to be careful with that pretty mouth.” Rich with amusement, deepened with want. Only sound in the room – Steve had turned the shower off – after a moment he said, very near, “Is that the plan?” Hushed, reverent.

Bucky swallowed again. “It’s my plan,” he said, hearing his voice break a little over the sound of the water, the razor tapping ceramic. “Thinking about it on the jet. Get home, lock the bedroom door, cuff you to something and go to town.” He wanted to say something more, something properly, spectacularly filthy, something that would set them both as off-balance as he was, as raw and as desperate. For an instant his hands on Natasha’s thighs tightened.

Then her hand was back on his chest, fingers splayed just underneath the towel, and a shudder went through him, head to toe, when she leaned down and re-settled herself atop him and he realised she was soaking, slick and hot and swollen open. “Gonna take you up on that offer in just another minute, love,” she whispered. “Gonna sit here in the bathroom and ride your thigh till I come apart, gonna watch you blow Steve right here on the floor.”

He had to open his eyes again. Her face over his was perfect in every line, opened up by and astonished at the strength of her own desire, and every curve of it was his to love. Steve was kneeling by their side, wet golden head against Natasha’s thigh; Bucky moved his hand from her skin to Steve’s, rubbed through his hair, cupped the back of his neck. Steve’s face was solemn and turned on and joyful: this, too, was Bucky’s to love, in spite of everything… He knew his eyes were wide; he felt astounded and shaken and when she put the blade to his throat again and stroked it upwards he actually moaned. His whole body went limp.

 _Well here’s a kink I really wasn’t expecting_ , he thought, a little hysterical, and tightened his hand on Steve; Steve who was laughing quietly, the soft, delighted laugh he got sometimes when they made love, incredulous and ecstatic.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Look at you.”

Again and again, setting him to shaking, rattling all his thoughts apart until all they were was want. Every time the blade left his skin he moaned. He was giddy, dizzy, breathless: it was as if she were gently scraping the debris of another life off him, peeling some protective camouflage away, leaving him doubly naked, undefended, unable even to defend himself. And yet, what need for that, under her weight, her touch; what need for that, with Steve so close? Bucky closed his eyes again and sank into it, gave himself up to it, and knew he couldn't stand to have it end.

But though Natasha was in anything but a hurry it was over eventually. Her hot palms touched his smooth cheeks, she dampened the towel and wiped the excess lather off his face, and then she followed the towel with her lips, kissing his jaw and chin and upper lip, rubbing her cheek against his – “Checking,” she murmured sweetly, “if I’ve missed a spot,” – and while Bucky was laughing shakily and going _off his head_ with need she kissed his mouth, kissed him warm and sweet for the first time in nearly two months, and Bucky – Bucky was on an _embarrassing_ hair trigger, because when she leaned in a little, bearing her weight down on him, and took the kiss deeper, her hands unbearably hot on his raw and naked face, he clutched at her hip and shuddered again, all over, and came all over himself and her, gasping into her mouth, and untouched too.

“Oh!” Natasha said, sweetly surprised and utterly delighted.

“Christ,” said Bucky, shivering. “That was –“

“I’m shaving you every morning,” she said, charmed.

“No, you’re not!” He leaned against her shoulder, laughing softly. “Oh my love.”

“I think that might be one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.” Steve sighed. Bucky’s hands were – he didn’t know what his hands were doing, apart from shaking a little. He gripped Steve’s shoulder, sighing too.

“You OK down there?”

Steve laughed again. “Of course.” He had a hand at the small of Natasha’s back; she leant back against it and rubbed her fingers over Bucky’s mouth. “The look on your face, Buck.” And he bent his head to lick and kiss Bucky’s come off Natasha’s stomach. She sighed, writhing about, her hand in his hair, and Bucky said, “Yeah, come on”; he parted his thighs, her slick glinting wetly on his skin, and she put her knee between them at once, settling down, groaned helplessly at the sensation – so did Bucky – blood-hot and soft and wet, her pubic hair soaked, he shuddered at the unusual sensation; once or twice she had rubbed off against his leg like this when he was in his jeans, making out on the couch with some floaty sundress hiked up round her hips and her panties still on, but never like this, he was fairly sure, and when she started to move a hot flush suffused her face, her glorious eyes fell shut, her hands clutched hard at his arm, his other leg. She had one foot on the floor for leverage, and her body rolling back and forth atop him, chasing her orgasm, using him, was just fucking beautiful. He tensed his thigh deliberately, and laughed when she dug her nails into his skin in response, gasping; Steve leaned against Bucky’s other thigh and said, “Come on, sweetheart, you’re so beautiful all worked up like this, all shaking apart; come for us, Tasha, wanna see you,” and by the time she did come, gasping softly and shaking, Bucky was fully hard again.

Lax and pliant with ecstasy, trembling with aftershocks as she moved against his thigh; both Bucky and Steve reached to hold her steady when she shook – the picture that made, Tasha sweet and laughing and clinging to them, and their hands on her, as if possessive.

“But what about Steve?” she asked at last, mock-innocent, looking up at him and biting her lips: Steve, standing now and leaking pre-come all over himself, so hard it hurt Bucky to look at his cock, and biting his lips himself, hot-eyed.

“I’m not getting blown on a filthy bathroom floor that hasn’t been scrubbed in six weeks,” he said, laughing, and Natasha said, “Oh get you!” and wrapped her hand around his cock. “Come here then.”

“God!” said Steve, and stumbled when he stepped closer, but Bucky steadied him easily. The angle was a little awkward, but Natasha settled herself on Bucky’s lap, heedless of the sticky mess she’d made of him, wrapped her arm around Steve’s slender waist and took him in, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked; the noises she made were appropriately obscene, and Steve was cursing in seconds, shaking, bent over and clutching the sink behind Natasha’s head – she hated them putting their hands on her when she blew either of them, which Bucky generally tried not to think about too hard lest it make him pry into things that were none of his business and then end up killing someone. But this here in front of him, this was glorious. Her hair was coming out of the bun; strands of it floated down and brushed her shoulders and neck in time with the bobbing of her head, and when Steve came – unusually quickly, for Steve, which, ridiculously, made Bucky feel better about his own lack of control – she swallowed his come, let his cock slide out of her mouth, smiling, kissed a wet trail up his abs to his navel; kissed him when he stepped back and went to his knees again beside them.

Now it was OK to slide hands into her hair, hold her head; Steve’s big fingers cupped her skull gently, tangled in the loosened strands. Bucky was breathing quick again and smiling, his fingers wrapped around the base of his cock; oddly, even more than the blowjob, the gentleness with which Steve slid his fingers into Natasha’s hair and untied the bun put him deliciously on edge. Red and thick and soft it tumbled down her back, long again now, as long as it had been when he had first known her, first loved her.

Suddenly he thought, _I haven’t kissed Steve in two months_ , and found it unbearable. He sat forwards; tugged Steve gently out of Natasha’s hands and into his own. That lush perfect mouth opened for him sweet and hot; he could taste Steve’s own come, faintly, from Natasha’s mouth – god, what a thought – and sighed and moaned a little and fairly melted into it, the ease and familiarity, the warmth and want and love. Steve nibbled on his lower lip, licked gently at his palate; Bucky, bent over him, closed his eyes and relaxed into it, totally, his hands cupping Steve’s jaw. He could feel Natasha’s weight against him, her hair brushing his skin.

“Bedroom,” she said at last, softly, “come on.” She laughed. “We’ve got all night.”

“We’ve got all week,” Steve said.

“Yeah.” Bucky smiled against Steve’s lips, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Yeah we have.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
